Blame It On The Wine
by Witty Teacup
Summary: After the death of Jeanne d'Arc, Francis swears revenge, and he'll do just that, in the most painful way possible. After all, revenge is a dish best served ice cold.


_May 30, 1431_

_The crowds of people gathered, muttering to themselves as they stared at the woman tied to the stake. She held a proud face, unblemished by fear, anxiety, and dread. The wind rustled her hair, and a man stepped forward, looking up at her._

_ "Jeanne d'Arc, you are charged with heresy and will burn for your crime," he said bitterly, sneering at her. _

_ Jeanne did not respond to him directly, only asked calmly, "I want a crucifix before me." _

_ The man scoffed and contemplated retort, but called out instead. "You two! Bring this damned woman a crucifix!"_

_ The two men scrambled about, heeding the command hurriedly. After a moment's time, they held it before her, and she closed her eyes, mouthing words that eyewitnesses could only assume were last prayers. When Jeanne reopened them, the man turned, and another Englishman set flame to her. _

_ The flames engulfed her, as gasps rung out all around. She winced, but uttered not a scream. People covered their eyes, turned the other direction, but one person shoved their way through. _

_ Francis Bonnefoy, the sole embodiment of the nation of France, gaped in horror at the scene before him. That was his Jeanne, his __**angel**__, being burned alive! His orbs darted around mercilessly for the unfortunate soul who'd caused this, and he snarled dangerously when he found the one and only, Arthur Kirkland, the embodiment of the England. _

_ His face contorted into even more anger as he watched him. His emerald eyes gleamed excitedly, as if he couldn't believe he'd finally caught the woman who'd postponed his winnings. The fire reflected, and a small, cocky smile plagued his lips. Francis growled darkly, attempting to get at the Englishman, but was held back by the bastard's men. _

_ "What is the meaning of this!" he shrieked violently at him, the orange glow of the flame illuminating his now tear-stained face. _

_ Arthur turned to him, his smirk widening at the sight of his pitiful appearance. "Hello Frog, enjoying the show? About time this…__**witch**__ burned…" _

_ The Frenchman struggled against his binds, spitting out curses, trying to wrap his fingers around his throat. "She is my angel! Mon ange! She has not done wrong! __**Nothing**__!" _

_ Arthur shrugged nonchalantly, returning his gaze back to the burning woman. The smell of smoke and charred flesh filled the air around him, choking him and the others who were watching. His glare hardened. _

_ "You'll pay for this Angleterre! I __**will**__ make you suffer for what you've done! I swear on it!"  
><em>

* * *

><p><em>March 20, 1760<em>

Arthur Kirkland sighed heavily as he exited the rocking boat at the harbor and onto the busy streets of Boston. The voices mingled, the loud noise making his ears ring as he walked through. He grimaced, thinking to himself again as to why he was here. As the thought crossed his mind, he remembered the darling face of his growing boy Alfred, and smiled. That's right, he'd promised he'd come to visit him when he had time, and Arthur never had been one to go back on his word.

He made his way to the house Alfred resided in, and upon approaching the front door, opened it. Arthur's smile broadened as he bellowed sweetly.

"Alfred! Alfred, it's Arthur! I came, just like I promised!"

However, not all was right.

At further inspection of the room, the place looked untidy and unkempt. It looked as if someone had just gone through and torn up the place. There was no sound of giggles, laughter, or the padding of feet rushing along the floor. There was no little "surprise" waiting for him as walked all around the room. There was just pure silence.

He didn't like that one bit.

The Englishman called out again, a bit louder this time, but still, no answer was received. He frowned, but kept his cool. What was the worst that could've happened? More than likely, he was probably just out and he didn't clean up. He was a teenager after all. But even so, he did investigate the house a bit more.

Somehow, he wished he hadn't.

Arthur walked towards Alfred's room. The door was cracked, just barely, and he slowly pushed it open. The room looked ransacked, as if someone had just come in and taken anything, and destroyed what wasn't wanted. He let out a soft cry from shock, as he stepped inside to evaluate the damage further.

The sheets on the bed were tangled and messy, drawers were flung open, everything was a complete wreck. His heart began to race a little. What if he'd…be kidnapped? No! There was no way that could happen to his little boy…right?

But a simple piece of paper on the bed confirmed his suspicions.

His hands trembled as he picked it up, reading the words over and over again.

_Cher Alfred n'est pas ici que vous voyez? Venez à l'entrée de la forêt si vous voulez lui revenir._

_Dear Alfred is not here, you see? Come to the entrance of the forest if you want him back._

He kept reading, praying that the words would somehow disappear, or tell nothing but lies. It was in French…it was in _French_. That could only mean one person.

_Francis_.

But why would he want to harm Alfred? No, that probably wasn't even his goal. He was probably trying to hurt Arthur himself. Anger boiled inside of him. How _dare _he try and hurt his little boy? But at the same time, worry rushed through him. What if Alfred was already dead? He shook his head. He had to find him _now._

Arthur raced out of the house towards the forest.

* * *

><p>The first thing Alfred noticed when he woke up was that his head hurt extremely badly and he was tied rather tightly to a tree. He attempted movement, but the restraints held him firmly to his spot. He looks around until his eyes fell to a man who was near him; his back was turned to him and a trail of smoke flowed into the air. Was he…smoking?<p>

"Mister…?" he croaked.

The man turned suddenly, it dawning on him that he was awake. The man's features were more visible to Alfred now; he had long, wavy blond hair, with sapphire, almost violet eyes. The boy cocked his head curiously at him.

"Mister…are you all right?"

The man said nothing, ignoring the question and only staring at him with mild curiosity. So instead he asked. "Why am I here…? And…what's going to happen to me?"

The man shook his head, walking towards him before stopping in front. He brushed a bit of the boy's hair behind his ear, as if trying to get a good look at him.

"I'm…not going to lie to you, _mon cher_. I'm going to kill you."

Alfred felt his heart stop, his stomach filling with butterflies, and his face draining of color. Kill him…?

"You're…going to…kill me…? But why…? What have I…done to you?" he asked shakily, his voice barely above a whisper.

The Frenchman touched his cheek, and his frown darkened. "You are the key in my revenge long overdue _cher_. You have my apologies for using you, but this is what I must do."

"But what are you using me for? What revenge is so strong inside of you that…you have to kill me…?" Alfred heard the desperation in his own voice. This couldn't be real could it?

The blond man turned around, sighing. "That _bastard_ took away what I love, so I'm going to take away what he loves!" he spat was disdain.

No more words were exchanged. Alfred felt his heart racing now, as sticks, hay, _flammable _materials were placed around him. This wasn't happening…this wasn't happening…!

"Francis!"

Alfred looked up, and the man turned. There, Arthur stood, looking breathless and worried. His hair was tasseled, as if he'd run the whole way here. His glare hardened at the sight before him.

"Release Alfred at once!"

Francis' face contorted into a grin. "_Bienvenue_, _Angleterre. _I'm so…happy you could come…"

"Don't spit that nasty French rubbish at me! Release him!"

His grin widened, as the sound of gunfire filled his ears. He held the weapon in his hand, smoke rising from it as Arthur cried out, blood spilling out of his knee. He dropped, holding the wounded ligament tenderly in hopes to stop the pain. Alfred called in terror, struggling violently in vain attempt to get to him. Arthur gazed up at him with a strained face.

"What is the _meaning _of this frog? And it damn well better be a good reason…"

"Revenge, long passed its due date _mon ami_, long passed."

Francis pulled out a box, opening it before taking out a match and lighting the cigarette that hung loosely out of his mouth. He took a long, drawing drag of the drug, letting the smoke fill his lungs before dropping it.

"Whoops…" he smirked.

At first, nothing happened, but slowly, the cigarette set fire to all of the burnable materials around, including Alfred.

Arthur's eyes widened, screaming in absolute horror as the array of fire ate away at his precious boy.

Alfred himself didn't even know what to think. All he knew was it was hot, terribly hot, the fire consuming his body as it crept up, searing his skin. It licked at him, taunting, as the heat overwhelmed him, his blood boiling from the constantly rising temperature. He felt tears welling up, and finally overflowing, as the pain died down, his nerves completely non-functional at this point. He wailed out pitifully, hoping that somehow, someway, he would live through this.

"A-A-Arthur…! A-Arthur!"

But there was nothing he could do; his leg was immobile from the bullet. The Englishman began crawling over, trying to save him in some form. His heart was shattering, his little boy was right there, being killed! Francis grinned at the pitiful sight before him, as he shot him again in the shoulder, more red liquid spewing out.

"How does it feel, _Anglettere_? How does it feel to see the one you love die right before you eyes, and there isn't a _damn thing you can do about it_!" he questioned bitterly, mockingly.

He laughed, hysteria taking over him. The crackle of the burning flames roaring in his ears, as Arthur sobbed.

"Is this because of her? Is it because of that _witch_?" Arthur shot at him angrily, his voice cracking on the spot.

Again, the Frenchman fired another bullet into him. "Shut your mouth! She meant _everything to me_ and you _killed her_! You took away the only woman I'd ever loved! Now you'll know the pain I had to suffer!"

His laughter continued, tears falling from his eyes as he did so.

"Alfred! Alfred my little boy! Alfred!"

No response was received; the fire had spread, igniting other places near the woods. Buildings, other trees, it all began to catch flame. It ravished the town, as the heat rose to the skies. Francis dropped to his knees, still in his mad fit.

"You see my love? This is for you! I've made our enemy pay, haven't you seen?"

Arthur still was trying to get to the charred tree that once held the boy he loved. The flames danced around him, but he didn't care. His tear-stained face was red, with fresh ones constantly falling.

"Alfred…!" he sobbed harder.

The merriment inside of Francis lingered still, his laughter still ringing in Arthur's own ears. He approached the fallen man, smirking at him.

"How does the bittersweet melody of _revenge_ sound _Anglettere?_ It's beautiful…_non_?"

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><p><strong>May 30th, 1431 - Jeanne d'Arc was burned at the stake for crimes of Heresy. <strong>

**March 20th, 1760 - A raging fire burns most of Boston. No one knows the cause of the fire. **

**I love Dark! France. **

**-IchigoMelon**


End file.
